He handed the notebook to me. I read:
What’s up with Mephisto turning into a demon?
What’s supposed to happen on Twelfth Night?
What was Mr. Prospero trying to do on September 23rd, when he freed the Three Shadowed Ones? And how do we rescue Mr. Prospero from Hell? (Note: Three Shadowed Ones are Baelor of the Baleful Eye—mind reader, Seir of the Shadows—teleporting incubus, and Osae the Red—shapechanger.)
Where did Mr. Prospero get his magic books and did he really turn the books into the magical staffs the Prospero Family now carry, like the demon Baelor of the Baleful Eye claims?
What’s up with this Ferdinand Di Napoli guy showing up and claiming Mr. Prospero dumped him alive in Hell five hundred years ago?
Where’s Mr. Gregor’s dead body?
Where is Mr. Titus?
What’s up with the voodoo dollhouse of Prospero’s Mansion in the library at Madam Logistilla’s place in the Okefenokee Swamp?
Does Mr. Prospero have Miss Miranda under a spell that makes her obedient to him?
I read them over carefully, snorting at the last one, then closed the notebook and handed it back to him.
“The only question we’re any closer to answering is number seven,” I said. “Thanks to Father Christmas’s scrying pool, we now know Titus’s children are at Logistilla’s estate in Georgia. When we get back to Oregon, I’m going to send an Aerie One to find out if Titus is living there—Logistilla hardly uses the place, she prefers her home on St. Dismas’s—or if there are any clues in the house as to where he might be. I’d like to visit myself, and meet the children. They should not be in any immediate danger, however, as they do not have staffs. So, we had better find the others first.”
“Can’t you do it from here?” Mab gestured at my flute, scowling. “Send one of us, I mean.”
“I could call up and send a local Aerie One, but I’d rather send someone I know and trust.”
“Good point.” Mab nodded. “Might be a good idea to post someone savvy enough to keep an eye on that dollhouse, too, while we’re at it. Considering that Titus’s children and freaky voodoo dollhouse are in the same mansion.”
I shivered. “Hadn’t thought of it quite that way. Let’s send one of your people, someone who is schooled in the magical arts who can tell us whether there are spells on that thing and whether it would be safe to move it to a safer place.
“Here’s a question you might want to add to your list,” I added. “ ‘What is this curse on my family that the demon Baelor of the Baleful Eye mentioned?’ ”
Mab scribbled it down. “Oh, and I forgot, Number Eleven: ‘How do we track down the teleporting perp?’ Er, beg your pardon, Ma’am, I mean ‘track down Mr. Ulysses.’
“As to the rest of the questions, Ma’am, I’ve got some leads. My people are following up a couple of things as well, but . . .” Mab chewed on the back of his shiny pen. “Um . . . there’s something else, Ma’am. Something I’m reluctant to talk about, but think you’d better know.”
“Yes? What is that?”
“It’s about Lord Astreus, Ma’am.”
“Oh?”
A cold draft was blowing against the back of my neck. It had probably been there for some time, but, caught up in reading the Book of the Sibyl, I had not noticed. Now, I found myself shivering. I unfolded an afghan that had been thrown over the back of my chair and arranged it around my shoulders. A faint pleasant scent of lanolin clung to the creamy yarn.
“I thought you should know about the conversation I overheard, Ma’am. I came upon Lord Astreus at Santa’s house. I was getting up my courage to say something to him, when your brother rounded a far corner. Lord Astreus greeted Mephisto and asked him how the years had been treating him. Mephisto answered in his usual dopey way, and they chatted for a few moments.”
A growing icy sensation in my stomach warned me that I did not want to hear the rest of this, but curiosity held me captive. “About what?”
“Normal stuff, like the weather and the low décolletage of the elven ladies this season. That was your brother’s contribution. Then—and this is the part I wanted to tell you about—Lord Astreus’s voice dropped so low I had trouble making out his words, but he said something like: ‘When last I saw you, circumstances were somewhat different, my friend. How did you manage to overcome your . . . affliction?’ ”
“Interesting!” I leaned forward, pulling the afghan closer. “What did Mephisto say?”
“Ma’am, your brother freaked!” Mab gestured emphatically with his pen. “His eyes fixed on the cup in Lord Astreus’s hand, and he began whimpering, ‘It’s y-you. . . . You’re the one who made me drink!’ Then, he started screaming at the top of his lungs, ‘No! No! Get away! I don’t want to forget!’ ”
Dread gripped me like a vice. “What happened next?”
“Nothing.” Mab shrugged. “Lord Astreus just walked away. His back was to me, so I couldn’t gauge his reaction. As soon as he left, Mephisto reverted back to normal—if you can call anything that nut case does, normal. He acted as if nothing had happened; just poured himself a drink from a nearby samovar and went hummingly on his way. By Setebos, he’s odd!
“Anyway,” Mab continued, “at the time, I thought it was just the Harebrain being his usual whacked-out self. But now, in light of that mural—I’m not so sure. . . .” Mab paused. “Do you remember the elves talking about a party in honor of Lord Astreus, for having excused them from the tithe?”
I nodded, recalling the terrible haunted look that had come over Astreus when I mentioned the incident.
“I . . .” Mab sighed. “I hate to speculate without facts, Ma’am, especially as Lord Astreus once did a great good for my people.”
“Spit it out, Mab!” An odd hollowness hovered where my stomach used to be.
Mab was quiet for a long time. A loud thump came from some other part of the house, followed by a squawk and some bellowing. Eventually, the ruckus fell silent. When Mab finally did speak, his words spilled out in a rush. “Ma’am, I’m thinking Lord Astreus may have bought the elves their freedom that year by tithing your brother!”
“What?” I half-rose from my chair.
“It’s just . . . the maenad made some comment about Mephisto having drunk too deeply of the Lethe. And that carving of his?” Mab gestured vaguely in the direction of the ballroom. “It showed Lord Astreus kneeling beside the Lethe, right at the end of the tithing procession, as if he was about to give the Water of Forgetfulness to the victim of the Tithe.”
“But if Mephisto had been tithed, wouldn’t he be in Hell?” I asked, agitated. “I mean tithed elves go bodily across the Styx . . . just like on Mephisto’s wall mural, right? He would just have vanished, right?”
“Unless he made a deal with his demonic captors,” Mab said grimly.
“You mean, like, he’ll take a chameleon cloak and hunt the Unicorn, or seduce souls like Faust, carry out other dastardly crimes for them, if they let him go to the surface world?” I shivered. It felt like cold fingers walking up the inside of my back. “And they gave him a bat-winged body as part of the deal?”
I stood and began pacing about the library. “I wish we knew what normally happened to elves who are tithed. Do the demons eat them? That’s what Gregor used to believe. He thought the demons consumed their essence and wore their skins like coats, so that they could slip out of Hell and pass among the elves, causing mayhem. He even theorized, at one point, that this was where the Unseelie Court came from, though he later abandoned that premise.”
“Don’t know, Ma’am. There are still a number of points that don’t quite fit. If Mephisto was tithed, he must know what happens to tithed elves. So, why did he ask the High Council at the Christmas feast?”
“With Mephisto, who knows?” I shrugged. Outside the window, I could see the mammoth rubbing its shaggy side against a pine tree. “To rile them up? To hint that he knew? Perhaps, if he drank of the River Lethe, he does not know himself why he ask
s. Could be anything.”
“If Astreus did tithe him, and this involved drinking water from the Lethe, it would definitely explain why your brother’s such a rattle brain,” Mab said. “It would also explain why, when he saw Lord Astreus with a cup in his hand, he freaked out and started shouting about not wanting to forget.”
“Having drunk from the River Lethe would go far to explain my brother’s condition,” I said slowly. “Everyone in my family forgets things. It’s part of living so long. Our minds weren’t meant to stretch over five centuries. Except for Cornelius—who’s made a study of memory—we all have days, years, even decades that have fallen into what Father calls the mists of time. Sometimes, things are forgotten entirely, other times our memory plays tricks on us. To this day, Theo and I cannot agree on who first introduced Leonardo da Vinci to our court in Milan. I swear it was Uncle Antonio, though Theo—who was also present—insists it was Uncle Ludovico. Mephisto, however, has brought this problem to a whole new level.
“He’s not so bad nowadays,” I continued, “but there have been periods where he didn’t seem to remember anything—and if the maenad’s telling the truth, he still has such spells, just not when family members are around.”
“You think he was tithed?” Mab cringed, clearly hoping I would disagree.
“Mab, I would dismiss this theory out of hand,” I replied slowly, “if it were not for one thing. You asked me once when Mephisto first showed signs of madness. The first time I saw Mephisto sans sanity was back in 1634, when he came to tell me that Astreus could not make our rendezvous. Mephisto and Astreus spent a good deal of time speaking together during that night in 1627 when we danced with the elves. And the first time I saw him without his sanity was exactly seven years later. The elves did not tell us why they were celebrating the first time we met them, but it could have been because the tithe was paid, and they were free for another seven years.”
“You never mentioned a rendezvous with an elf!” Mab stated accusingly.
“That’s because it never happened.” I gave a dismissive wave.
“Humph!” he snorted. “I hate to say it, Ma’am, but that about clinches it. Instead of tithing an elf, Lord Astreus tithed your brother, then he told the elves that no tithe was needed that Sevenyear.
“Once tithed,” Mab continued, “Mephisto must have made some kind of compact with the Powers of Hell that allowed him to become a demon. Except, since Mephisto is a human and not a pixy or a sprite—or whatever they usually tithe—he had a soul. This would keep him from permanently changing his nature, which might explain why he can change back and forth between demon and human.”
“Maybe. . . .” I frowned. “In fact that had been my first thought when I saw his demon form . . . that he had made some infernal bargain to regain part of his sanity. But that would have had to have happened after 1634. If so, what about the references to the demon Mephistopheles from 1589? And Mephisto’s ‘new trade’?”
“Maybe the Orbis Suleimani backdated Mephistopheles for some reason. Faust’s original demon might have had another name. Maybe Mephisto did it himself, to leave some kind of clue. Maybe I was just off base on that new trade thing.”
“What I don’t understand is: If Astreus betrayed Mephisto, why did my brother bother to come tell me Astreus could not make our rendezvous? How did he even find out Astreus was not coming? Why have a note that says: THIS IS MY BEST FRIEND ASTREUS. And what about this dire mission Astreus has undertaken for the queen? Is it related to the tithing of Mephisto?”
“Could be. I would not put much past Queen Maeve. She’s a fine queen, but she’s tricky—and she is the queen of the Unseelie Court, the seedier side of the supernatural world. Could be Astreus tithed Mephisto secretly, and the queen found out and is blackmailing him to accomplish some purpose of her own.”
“But, why tithe my brother and then go way out of his way to get me the Book of the Sibyl?”
“The what?”
“The Book of the Sibyl, the one I’ve been seeking for so long.”
“The Book of the Sibyl?” Mab frowned. “How’s that figure in?”
I held up the little black volume. “Astreus gave it to me.”
“You accepted a gift from an elf?” Mab exploded, the very picture of outrage.
“It was bestowed in the Mansion of Gifts,” I replied crisply. “Were it not wholesome, Father Christmas would not have allowed it.”
Father Christmas had more than allowed it, though I did not pause to explain this to Mab. He had actually arranged it. As we were preparing to leave, he had come into the reindeer barn, the ermine trim of his crimson robes brushing aside the straw, and asked me whether I had liked his gift, claiming it had been for the purpose of bestowing upon me the gift I had requested over a century earlier that he had fished Lord Astreus Stormwind from the Void. I thanked him profusely, but he just smiled and assured me that only a man who took great pleasure from a gift happily received would remain in his line of work. Reaching into his voluminous crimson sleeve, he drew out the coronet of silver and horn that Astreus had worn during the Christmas feast and handed it to me, saying, “You keep this for now. You may find it useful anon.”
“When I asked what it was for, Father Christmas had merely smiled mysteriously and replied, ‘When the time comes to use it, Child, you will know.’ ”
Mab, placated by Father Christmas’s approval, took the black leather volume and examined it, sniffing carefully and flipping through its pages. I hid Astreus’s coat-of-arms, which I had slid from the book as I handed it to him, in my sleeve.
“That’s pretty spectacular, Ma’am. I’m glad for you. Know you’ve been looking for it for centuries. As to why Astreus brought it for you? That I don’t know, Ma’am. Elves are capricious. Maybe he felt sorry for having deprived you of your brother. Maybe it was Mephisto’s last wish, or something.”
Mab’s theory took all the charm out of the notion that Astreus had gone to so much trouble to bring me the book. The little book, which had been so dear to me, now seemed tainted, as if it had been paid for with my brother’s blood.
“You may be right,” I admitted wearily. I took the book back, replaced the coat-of-arms, and slipped the slim volume back into the packet of my cashmere cloak. “It would certainly explain the facts. If it is true, I’m glad that Astreus has spent the last three hundred years toiling on some unpleasant task, and I’m sorry I danced with him!”
Mab, who had admired his elven liege lord for many more centuries than I had been alive, did not share my fervor. Sticking his notebook into the pocket of his trench coat, he hunched his shoulders dejectedly and slouched from the room.
The next morning, as we prepared to depart, Mab asked, “Before we leave, Harebrain, how did you find us?”
“Find thee?” Mephisto was standing in front of a floor-length mirror set into the sitting-room door, trying on the cavalier’s hat Santa had given him for Christmas.
“How did you happen to arrive right as the Three Shadowed Jerks attacked our plane?”
“Ah, that,” Mephisto replied, adjusting the hat.
He did not continue, but stood silently staring at his own reflection, his face contemplative. It was a handsome hat in a style Mephisto had often worn years ago, with a big indigo ostrich plume protruding at a jaunty angle. Seeing it on his head brought a pang of nostalgia for the company of the younger, saner Mephistopheles.
I looked at my brother. Was he secretly evil? Had he been tithed and made a deal with the Rulers of Hell to save his life? Or was I starting at shadows and seeing bogeymen where none were present? If he were working for the forces of Hell, why did he save us, first in the warehouse and then when the Three Shadowed Once destroyed our plane?
If Astreus tithed him, why had my brother portrayed the elf lord wracked by grief? None of it made any sense, and just thinking about it was making my head hurt.
Eventually, Mephisto gripped the hat by its wide black brim and, pulling it off, handed it to me.
“You’d better keep this, Miranda. I’ll only lose it.”
“Er, thanks, Mephisto. Just what I always needed,” I murmured dubiously.
“I’m not giving it to you. It’s my hat,” he replied frowning, as if he was concentrating very hard. “I just want you to keep it for me. Bring it along to Erasmus’s New Year’s Eve party, would you? Just in case I find a tux to match it. You did say you were going, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.” I thought of Ferdinand, and my cheeks grew warm. A giddy girlish sensation threatened to engulf me.
I stiffened. Was this natural or demon-Mephistopheles-induced madness? I frowned at my brother. “Were you going to answer Mab’s question?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” My brother shrugged and replied in his rapid casual manner. “How did I find you? I didn’t. I was chasing them, the Three Shabby Ones. After they summoned Chimie back—and I snatched my staff out of their hands—I followed them around for a while, letting various friends have a chance at harassing them. They tried to teleport away, of course, but I’d snuck a few friends onto them: Soupy the Snake, and the poison butterfly, and guys like that. And . . . oh yeah, I just happened to be there when they were attacking you. They must have had a fell spirit watching your plane that alerted them when you were in the air. It probably had been following you ever since the Islands. Glad I was there, though! It would have been a shame if you’d crashed. That smooshed-to-red-paste look just wouldn’t suit you, Miranda.”
“Thank you, Mephisto,” I said gratefully. Demon or not, he had saved me. Under the influence of hat-inspired nostalgia, I gave my crazy brother a hug.
CHAPTER FIVE
Of Secrets and Revelations
A cold ride on Pegasus, a quick jaunt in a company jet, and we returned to Prospero’s Mansion, in the foothills of Oregon’s Cascade Mountains. Upon arriving home, I learned that Prospero, Inc. had just suffered a second disaster. An explosion had destroyed one of our warehouses in Michigan—luckily not the one in which Mab had stored the warded crate containing a gate to Hell his men had taken from the warehouse in Maryland. (It had been while fighting the creatures that emerged from this crate that we had first encountered Mephisto in his big bat-winged form.)
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